Madman with a Skull
by Sapphixiation
Summary: "Just a quick nip to the Tesco, that's all I asked for, but no. Nothing's easy with this man." No Johnlock yet. YET. EDIT: Oh, there's Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

There was a strange knock at the door, and that made John nervous. If it were Mrs. Hudson, a timid knock would have been followed immediately with a small "Boys?" It wasn't heavy enough to be Lestrade's, nor was it the two clipped knocks frequently used by Mycroft. And God knew Sherlock wouldn't knock on anyone else's door, let alone his own.

In fact, the knock had a silly rhythm to it, something he'd heard before -

KNOCK KNOCK-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK... KNOCK-KNOCK.

"Yeah, coming," John said, setting down his newspaper and circling round the armchair to come to the door.

By the time John had his hand wrapped loosely around the door handle, it was already being pulled open.

"Hello," a man said brightly, holding a Scotland Yard ID badge far too closely to John's face. "DI Smith, err, no, what's this say? James? James, then, DI James, can I use your phone?"

John closed his hanging jaw with a click, trying to sort all the words out in his head.

"Excellent," the man said, striding into the flat and looking around.

"I'm sorry," John said to the other man's thin back, closing the door behind him. "Do I know you?"

The strange man - DI James - turned round, grinning ear-to-ear. "Aren't you going to offer me tea?"

John blinked. "Yeah, okay," he said. He walked into the kitchen, looking over his shoulder as the DI flopped down on Sherlock's couch and let out a dramatic, contented sigh.

"So, you know Sherlock, then," John called from the kitchen, pouring tea into cups and setting the sugar dish on the tray he reserved for the rare visit from Mrs. Hudson, or perhaps Mycroft.

"Oh, yeah," James said casually. "I've met him before. Not exactly recently, but in London. Well, _a_ London..."

John sat opposite him and set the tea tray on the sitting table between the two.

"How many sugars do you take," John asked with a thin smile.

James looked up from John's newspaper with surprise. "Hmm? Oh! Yes, sixteen, thank you."

John looked at him blankly. "Six, ahem, six_teen_?"

"Sixteen, yeah, thanks," he said.

John rose his eyebrows, but started adding sugar into James' cup.

"So," James said, tapping his hands rhythmically on the armrests. "John Hamish Watson."

John paused in his application of sugar. After a moment, he resumed spooning sugar into the cup.

"Read the papers, do you," he asked, looking up and smiling.

"Oh, no," James said, standing up and sniffing - really _sniffing_ - around the room. "I'd know a Watson anywhere! Strong, sturdy, brilliant - no matter what timeline you're in."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Without warning, James jumped over the couch and stood before John, all lanky legs and floppy hair. John didn't stand. He thought back and realised that the badge the DI had flashed him was the wrong colour.

"Ahh, yes," James said, rubbing his hands together. "John Watson, the faithful, loyal John Watson. You," he said, pointing to John from where he stood, "are exactly what I need." He crossed over to where John was sitting, bending at the waist and gripping the armrests of John's armchair until their faces were merely inches apart.

"Oh, I'm sorry," John said dryly. "Afraid I lost count."

The DI's brows knitted together, then he looked down at the teacup.

"Was that fourteen or fifteen," John asked, their eyes locked.

Suddenly, the door to the flat crashed open and both men's heads snapped toward the sound. The door banged against the wall and whipped back into the leather gloved hand of the man who'd entered. Sherlock slammed it closed and leaned his back against it, gulping for air. His face was flushed and his eyes were closed. He stayed like that a moment, catching his breath.

"What were you running from," John asked, his voice a bit edgy. "What's out there?"

Eyes still closed, Sherlock replied, "nothing, John, nothing. Just a bit of... Russian... mafia business, nothing." Sherlock opened his eyes and saw the lanky, strangely dressed man with his lips inches from John's, and his back straightened.

"Oh," he said, blinking. "I didn't realise I was interrupting, I could-"

John narrowed his eyes in confusion, then remembered how close he was to the DI.

"No," he said, shaking his head quickly to dispel any such thoughts. "That's not - he's not - no, hang on, Russian mafia? Did you say _Russian mafia?_"

James sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Who is this," Sherlock asked, inclining his chin toward the DI.

"You attracted the Russian mafia," John said, not listening. He was furious, and stood up, gently pushing the DI's chest away from him so he could step forward.

"John, there's a strange man in our flat who you clearly don't know by the way your body was tilted ten degrees away from his, and all you care about is a minor case?"

"Minor case?" John put his hand to his forehead and laughed disbelievingly. "Sherlock, _Russian mafia_ does not correlate to _minor case. _Did they follow you here?"

An excited shout from the DI squashed the reply Sherlock was about to make, and both men looked toward him.

"Sherlock, you said? As in Sherlock _Holmes_?" James jumped over the couch and crossed the flat to take Sherlock's jaw in his hand and tilt his face back and forth like the head judge at a dog show. "Oh, brilliant," he murmured, inspecting the dark hair, pale eyes, raised cheekbones, so much _youth_-! "Just brilliant."

Sherlock snapped out of his shock and grabbed the other man's wrist, expertly twisting it until the man was on his knees, his arm above him. In one fluid motion, James shifted and twisted on the ground and popped up to his feet, holding his wrist with Sherlock's hand on it in front of him. In his other hand, he held out a square of paper.

"Relax," he said. "I'm a Doctor."

Sherlock looked from the paper to the man. He stared him straight in the eyes and dropped his wrist.

"Hang on, I thought you were a DI," John said, crossing over to the threshold and attempting to take the paper out of the strange man's hand. Before he could reach for it, the man slipped it back into his inner coat pocket.

"I was," he replied cooly. Then he looked distant. "I mean, I have to've been, at one point." He shook his head to clear it. "Anyway," he said, clapping his hands in front of him -

"That paper is blank," Sherlock said in five clipped syllables.

The Doctor looked at him. A grin slowly split his face. "Brilliant, he's brilliant," he said to John, gesturing to Sherlock.

"I am," Sherlock agreed, slowly walking circles around the visitor, "Brilliant enough to know that you're not a Detective Inspector nor a doctor - you don't carry your stress in your shoulders, characteristic of someone in a law enforcement position, and the way you can't stop moving your hands leads me to believe that you find it nearly impossible to stay in one place too long, much too long for surgery."

The Doctor just kept grinning. "Very good, almost perfect," he interrupted.

"And I know you aren't human."

The Doctor's smile faltered a bit.

John scoffed, stepping back and looking at the DI - Doctor - whatever. "Sherlock, come on."

"John, whatever this man is, he is not human."

"Are you taking the piss?"

"When I held his wrist, I could feel an irregular heartbeat. His blood pressure was high, dangerously, fatally high for a normal person. High blood pressure, so an unusually strong heart. But that quick of a pulse? No, that's not possible short of cardiac arrest, that's not _human_." Sherlock sneered at him.

Instinctively, John surged forward and took the man's wrist into his hand, looking at his watch to measure his pulse. Almost instantly, he dropped the wrist with a sharp intake of breath, as if it were hot.

"Christ," he whispered, looking wide-eyed at the Doctor. "What _are _you?"

Something heavy crashed against the door, and a deep male voice groaned.

"You idiot, it's locked!"

"How was I supposed to know!"

There was a mechanical whistling. The Doctor patted all of his pockets, turning round in circles.

"You've GOT to be kidding me - AMELIA POND!"

The door burst open, the doorknob taking another chunk out of the wall it banged against. A pretty red-haired woman and a man with a large nose stood in the doorway.

"Oh, come off it," Amelia said, a playful smile on her lips. "You agree to let us pop by the Tesco and you expect us to believe it's just that easy? Insurance," she said, tossing a metal cylinder at the Doctor. He scrambled to catch it. He looked it over, poking and prodding at buttons. Satisfied, he looked up to glare at the man next to her.

"Russian mafia," the Doctor asked, his voice dangerously low. Rory held his hands up in front of him, the international symbol of _I had nothing to do with this. _Amy avoided eye contact, contenting herself to walk over to the mantle, looking at the skull with a curious gleam in her eye. Sherlock caught her and crossed the room swiftly, inserting himself between Amy and the mantle, arms crossed.

John had had enough. A whole room full of Sherlocks, God help him.

He snatched the cylinder out of the Doctor's hands and held it behind his back. The Doctor reached for it, and John took a step back.

"No, not until you tell me exactly who you are and what you want."

The Doctor carded a hand through his floppy hair. "If you give me my screwdriver, I can show you," he said. John could hear the echo of his own exasperated voice in the Doctor's. He held his ground.

"Talking's fine," he said, smiling. But the screwdriver slipped from his hands. He whirled around and saw Sherlock walking off with it, pressing buttons and twisting pieces around.

"Sherlock," John chided, but the Doctor was on Sherlock's heels. He stretched one of his gangly arms around Sherlock and grabbed the screwdriver, wrenching it from Sherlock's hands.

"Now!" he said firmly, dusting off his blazer. "If you could be patient for just one moment-"

"Not likely," Sherlock drawled, inspecting his fingernails, and John bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

The Doctor pulled a sour face and lifted the screwdriver into the air, the mechanical whirring filling the air again. Every light in the flat turned on simultaneously, the telly blaring, the kettle's start-up beep sounding, the microwave crowing. Both John and Sherlock's mobiles both started ringing, and John could even hear his alarm clock going off upstairs.

With a smug smile, the Doctor lowered the screwdriver and the flat fell silent.

John's jaw fell open, and Sherlock merely scoffed.

"We'll send you the bill at the end of the month," he said. He was cut off by John's loud, "How did you _do _that!"

The Doctor grinned again and slipped the screwdriver into his inside coat pocket.

"Care to come on a little trip?"

* * *

_Alright, here's the deal. Tear this story a new arsehole. I want all of your criticism; I want to know exactly when and how the characters became out of character. I want to know exactly when it was boring. This story is awesome in my head, but that won't stop me from treating it like a red-headed stepchild._

_(If that offends you, I'll have you know I'm a red-headed stepchild.)_

_-sdez_


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours, much shouting and one dramatic near-faint later, the newcomers had at least a basic understanding of the TARDIS. Sherlock, of course, was convinced he knew it like the back of his hand. The Doctor thought that was cute, which made Sherlock pull a face that Amy and John were mimicking hours later.

The Doctor saw how excited John was, but he also saw the fear hidden in Sherlock's pale eyes. Everything he knew was turned upside down when he stepped into the TARDIS, which was the normal reaction, but for someone like Sherlock who put all of his faith into logic, it was a staggering blow.

So the Doctor thought of a middle ground. Smiling, the Doctor threw open the TARDIS doors and gestured outside with a wide sweep of his arm.

John covered his mouth with his hand. "Brilliant," he choked, stepping timidly toward the door.

"Go ahead," the Doctor beckoned. "Oxygen field and everything. Completely safe. Come on, John Watson!"

John stepped up to the edge, the toes of his shoes extending into space, and stared out into the universe. His heart thudded dully in his chest, and he felt all of the air in his lungs leave him as he was taken with how spectacular it all was.

The Doctor took John's hand into his own unnaturally warm one, and John stepped off of the TARDIS and into nothingness. He laughed as he felt himself being pulled gently outward, the Doctor's hand tethering him to the TARDIS. He screamed into space and looked back at the Doctor, grinning madly. The Doctor grinned and raised his other hand in a thumbs up. Sherlock came up from behind him and looked from the planet in front of him to John and back to the planet.

"That's not the earth," he said, eyes narrowed. "I thought you said we were orbiting the moon."

"_A_ moon," the Doctor corrected, pulling John back into the TARDIS. "Triton, seventh moon of Neptune."

Sherlock scanned the Doctor for any signs of lying, but he didn't have any, and even if he did, something inside Sherlock told him that he wouldn't be able to tell anyway. Sherlock ignored that voice.

"Other planets have moons, Sherlock," John said, his mouth pulled into a lopsided smile.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. "I suppose they have..."

* * *

The console room was dim, the Time Rotor casting a ghostly light over the Doctor's weary face. He mindlessly fiddled with a lever or two, twisting and calibrating as the TARDIS gently orbited Triton.

He was thinking, yes, of course, always thinking, and he didn't let his face betray his surprise when John came up from behind him and leaned against the console.

"It is late, Doctor Watson," the Doctor said sternly, but he smiled. His eyes never left the monitor above the console. "You should be asleep." He popped the _p_.

"Yeah, well," John said, rubbing his face with his hands, "you don't sleep, Sherlock doesn't sleep, figure I'd join the club."

"Sherlock's sleeping," the Doctor said offhandedly.

"Oh is he? Wait, hang on, _how _did you manage that? Don't tell me you've got... Vulcan mind pinch, or-"

"Of course not," the Doctor snapped, mildly offended. "Do you know how many rooms there are in the TARDIS? Poor man tired himself right out."

John smiled fondly. The Doctor noticed and grinned.

"Oh, John Watson," he said, shaking his head. "John Watson. It's all true, isn't it?"

John blinked. "Oh! No, that? No, that's all- God, you're not even from earth and you've heard the rumours! We're not a couple!"

The Doctor shook his head and returned his attention to the monitor. "Oh, I don't listen to rumours, John," he said. "'I see, and I observe,'" he said in a stuffy posh voice.

John let a laugh ring through the console room. The TARDIS hummed in reply and that made the Doctor smile. She was growing to like the Baker Street boys.

He looked over at John and saw that he was staring at him.

"You weren't going to take Sherlock," John said, and the Doctor's lips quirked. "You came when you knew he was out and you lied about who you were, and you said I was 'exactly what you need.' Why me?"

"How many times have I been asked that question, that's the problem with you humans, you're so self-doubting! It's such a bummer to be around!"

John shook his head. "Why me, why not Sherlock? He's brilliant, I'm rubbish."

"That's why, John," the Doctor said, turning to stare into his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes, great detective. Sherlock Holmes and the Science of Deduction. But then there's John Watson, brave, clever, _brilliant_ John Watson who is only hiding in the shadows of the great detective because he can't tell exactly how important he really is."

John was shocked to the core. He stared at the Doctor, silently urging him to go on, but he never did. He just slapped John lightly on the arm and bade him goodnight.

Hearing the door close softly behind the Doctor, John walked over to the TARDIS doors. He opened them with a creak and looked out onto the surface of Neptune, a planet he'd only ever seen in books, one of the planets he'd dreamt of walking on as a child.

He closed the doors and leaned against them, letting out a deep breath. His heart was skipping beats again.

* * *

John's footsteps echoed on the strange metal floor as he walked around the console, careful not to walk to close to the Doctor and have the teacup slapped out of his hands by the man's flailing limbs. He and Sherlock had had a squabble after the Doctor found Sherlock's legs sticking out from under the console and realised that the detective had rewired sections of the TARDIS. He had shouted in languages even the TARDIS couldn't translate, and since then, Sherlock had been in a sulk.

"One moody genius is enough," Rory had said, throwing his hands up. "I'll be in the piano room."

"Which one," John cracked, and Rory looked at him as if he was seeing him for the first time. He smiled. John returned the smile.

Now John padded down the stairs and came over to where Sherlock was sitting, slumped against the wall, glaring holes into the back of the Doctor's tweed blazer. John sat down next to him and offered him the tea. Sherlock took it and sipped it slowly.

John cleared his throat. "All right?"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock snapped. "Was fine, am fine, _fine._"

John placed his fingertips against his lips and looked away to hide his smirk. "What motivated you to rewire a craft that travels through both space and time?"

Sherlock whirled to his feet, the teacup sitting at John's side. He whipped around and stared at John.

"This doesn't make sense, John," he said lowly. "Something cannot have more space inside than it is intended to hold by surface area of the outside, it's impossible. There is not enough room for this much space inside this... this..." he flapped his hand around, looking for the word.

"Police box," John said.

"Police box!" Sherlock shouted.

"TARDIS," the Doctor called from above. John let a laugh slip past his defenses, but had enough decency to look sorry for it when Sherlock fixed him with a glare.

"And there's more than just this, you know," the Doctor continued, poking his head out from behind the console, welder's mask over his face. He pulled it up and revealed a teasing grin, directed at Sherlock. "Infinite rooms," he said mysteriously.

"Impossible," Sherlock said, but John was trained enough to notice that gleam in his eye that smelled a deduction. Apparently, the Doctor did, too. He simply replaced the welder's mask and ducked under the console. No sparks flew out. John suspected he was wearing it for fun.

Sherlock stood quietly for a moment before whirling about and skulking off in the direction of a nearby door.

"Let me know if you find the aviary," the Doctor called after him, waving the screwdriver at Sherlock's departing figure. "Been looking for that!"

And John didn't try to hide his laugh this time.

* * *

"Sherlock, GET YOUR ARSE OVER HERE," Amy bellowed, causing John to jump. He appreciated Amy's ability to get things done, but he hadn't understood what Rory had meant when he said "face like an angel, voice like a harpy."

Sherlock opened one of the doors in the long corridor, poking his head out to give Amy one of his Looks. Amy only raised her eyebrow, accepting his challenge.

"Did you hear John calling you?" she asked. "Because he's been trying to get you to eat for the past _two hours_." John smiled and casually waved to Sherlock, who just directed the Look at him.

"Honestly, Amelia," Sherlock said dryly, using That Name again, if only for the reaction it got out of Amy. "How does Rory put up with you? With a voice like that, no wonder he's always trying to get himself killed."

Amy left John's side to walk quickly down the corridor. She grabbed Sherlock by the opening of his collar and dragged him back down the hallway with her. Unused to being physically contested, Sherlock just blushed and sputtered things like "uncalled for" and "absolutely immature".

The TARDIS had three kitchens that John knew of, but one of them was also an aquarium. When he made the mistake of asking the Doctor if the location of the fish tank was out of practicality, the Time Lord had got himself in a fluster and declared the kitchen off-limits. So now John had two to work with.

Amy steered Sherlock into a seat in the smaller kitchen and John got to work making him tea and a sandwich.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said quietly. John and Amy both spun around and gave him a look. No, a Look. Sherlock shrunk back in surprise and an even more surprising hint of fear. He made a mental note to keep John away from Amy. It made him nervous.

John set the sandwich in front of Sherlock, who surprisingly tore into it as soon as the plate touched the table. Smiling, John turned back to make himself and Amy a cuppa.

"So," he said, setting tea in front of Amy, "You've been gone two days. What have you found?"

Swallowing some tea, Sherlock nodded. "Three libraries, a gymnasium, six parlours, two of which are in disrepair and one of which has no furniture, a dining room, ten bedrooms for people of varying ages, a garden, a walk-in wardrobe, an empty pantry, two aquariums and an aviary."

"Ooh, he's going to be cross with you," Amy said over the lip of her teacup, and John laughed.

"Oh, and a kitchen," Sherlock added.

"Another kitchen," John asked brightly.

"Oh, it's completely non-functional," Sherlock added, sipping his tea. "The faucets don't work, there's an aquarium taking up at least half the space, and there's nothing in the refrigerator but cream pies and Jammy Dodgers."

He looked quite offended when Amy spit her tea back into her cup and John stormed off bellowing "DOCTOR!"


	3. Chapter 3

If the enemy of your adversary is your friend, Sherlock had decided, then the husband of your adversary is your _best_ friend. So the second day in the TARDIS, Sherlock decided to befriend Rory Williams.

His first attempt was generally unsuccessful. He had come up with a list of possible topics Rory would enjoy talking about, and having known him for a day, the only item on that list was Amelia Pond. So he sidled up to Rory that morning while he watched Amy and John talk animatedly about some reality television show on the telly - "You wouldn't believe how shit the reception is out here, I haven't seen an episode since Christmas!" - and caught his attention by coughing gently into his hand. Rory looked up at him and smiled tightly.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello," Sherlock replied. He cleared his throat again and nodded toward Amy. "She's quite beautiful."

Rory did a double take. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock backpedaled horribly. "I mean to say, you're quite lucky, to have Amelia, that is, because statistically the likelihood-"

"Are you saying I'm not good enough for Amy," Rory said, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. His pupils were dilated and he had straightened his back, making himself taller by an inch. He was reflexively tightening and loosening his fists.

"Of course not," Sherlock managed, and he shuffled away to find the door to the corridor.

So the first attempt was unsuccessful, but no matter. The second attempt would not fail. Rory was a man of action with a strong moral compass and a meager sense of self. So Sherlock decided, what better way to befriend a man like this than by proving himself virtuous and self-sacrificing?

Understanding and accepting that this would be a "one step back, two steps forward" approach, Sherlock swallowed his pride and walked up to Rory, who was leaning against the TARDIS doors watching the Doctor show John the anatomy of the Sontarans on the console screen.

Rory looked at him briefly before returning his eyes to John, who was taking notes feverishly, and the Doctor, who was attempting to tear the paper from his hands.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Rory," he said evenly. He paused, but repeated, "Rory..." A feeling of dread dawned on him as he realised he had only ever apologised to John, and John was completely different.

"Yeah," Rory said, nodding. "Thanks."

Sherlock's lips parted before he pursed them back together. "Excuse me?"

"It's cool now," Rory said with a slightly awkward smile. "Thank you, it's sorted."

Sherlock blinked a few times, but turned around and walked away.

He wasn't sure if the second attempt was successful or not. He didn't like it. So he decided that a third attempt should do, just to be sure. He just had no idea how to go about it. And that was frustrating.

He was sitting in one of the parlours trying to come up with a plan when Rory poked his head in the door.

"Hey, mate," he said, a bit uncomfortably. "John's looking for you. He says you haven't slept in a few days?"

Sherlock scoffed and sat back in his chair. "Would you mind not telling him I'm here?"

Surprisingly enough, Rory grinned. "Oh, one of those, then," he asked. "Amy's the same way. 'Rory, that's your third biscuit,'" he said in a high Scottish accent, "'Rory, be careful,' 'Rory, hurry up, they're firing at us.'"

Sherlock let out a low chuckle. "So I'm not the only one who thinks orbiting _Triton_ is the least bit boring?"

"GOD, no," Rory groaned, closing the door behind him and falling into the chair opposite Sherlock's. "Never thought I'd be saying this, but I miss the running."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, leaning forward in his chair. "John, though, he could stare at that planet for hours, just sitting round. Dull."

Rory leaned in conspiratorially. "Honestly, between you and me, her and John? It's a bit spooky."

Sherlock let out a loud chuckle, which led Rory into a minor giggle fit.

"Did you really rewire the TARDIS," Rory asked, still smiling.

Sherlock smirked. "It's quite simple, really. I don't see how wearing a bowtie makes you more qualified to pretend you know what you're doing."

Rory's eyes widened and he yelled in glee, bursting into peals of laughter and rocking in his chair.

They were still smiling and chatting when Amy and John opened the door to the parlour 45 minutes later.

"Do you see what I mean," Rory laughed, gesturing to Amy and John, standing together.

Sherlock shook his head, smiling. Amy didn't get the joke.

"Rory?" she said warningly. "You've been gone an hour." Rory's laughter died off and he sniffed.

"Oh, sorry," he said, sneaking a glance at Sherlock, who was smiling behind his tented fingers. Amy just looked at him with eyebrows raised, waiting for him to explain himself.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock's not in trouble," he complained, getting to his feet.

"And Sherlock isn't John's husband, is he?"

The room went silent. Amy started to blush a bit as she realised she didn't really know the answer. "Is he?" she repeated. Rory looked from John's reddening face to Sherlock's carefully blank one.

John looked at Sherlock. When they made eye contact, he looked down. The Doctor's words echoed in his head: "..._only hiding in the shadows of the great detective because he can't tell exactly how important he really is._"

Sherlock saved the awkwardness by sighing dramatically. "Really, Amy, if John were my husband, do you really think I'd let him find me this easily?"

And Sherlock and Rory were laughing again, and Amy was shouting, and John was grinning but he didn't know exactly why just yet.

* * *

The third day, Amy cornered the Doctor as he walked into the console room.

"Why are we still here," she asked, hands on her hips.

The Doctor pursed his lips, looking quite like a certain consulting detective. "Why, I thought we were enjoying ourselves, but if you and Rory would like to go home, I'm sure-"

"Oh, hush," Amy snapped, smiling. "You know what I mean. You pick up famous detectives Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and your big adventure is orbiting a tiny moon for two days? What's your plan."

"First of all," the Doctor said, stepping past her, "Triton is a great moon. Triton's cool. Second of all, maybe I was just worried a 'big adventure' would be too much for them right now."

"Sherlock's bored," Amy said nonchalantly. "Rory told me. He thinks you're a big. Old. Bore." She poked at his chest to give the words more depth.

The Doctor tried not to rise to her bait, he really did. But in the end, he thought of Sherlock Holmes, even a bratty kid version, leaving his TARDIS thinking the Doctor was boring, and he spat out, "well if they'd hurry up and _do _something-"

"A-HA!" Amy cried, and the Doctor jerked back, knocking himself against the console. "I knew you were up to something! What are you trying to do?"

The Doctor ran his fingers through his hair, blowing a breath out. "I've got a bet on," he mumbled.

Amy leaned forward and gasped. "No," she said, slowly shaking her head and grinning. "No, you haven't got a bet about... Doctor!" She looked scandalised. "You're trying to set up John and Sherlock!"

"No," the Doctor said childishly. "I'm not taking a side, I'm trying to figure out if something's there or not. It's for an old friend."

Amy shook her head, still smiling. She turned around and walked toward the inner rooms. "You know, you're not a bad matchmaker," she said casually. "Look at me and Rory."

"I try not to," the Doctor jibed, and Amy turned round to give him a Look.

She'd always been good at those.

* * *

"Well, Sherlock," the Doctor said proudly, "What do you think of _this_?"

Sherlock stepped out of the TARDIS into a grassy clearing, surrounded by dense woods. A gentle breeze rippled the tall grass and birds lit on branches and flew off in twos.

"Dull."

"I _thought_ you'd say that," the Doctor said with a poke to Sherlock's chest, "But have you noticed anything? Anything... Strange? Come now, you're the great observer! So observe!"

Sherlock looked round for a moment, stepped a few feet into the clearing, then retreated to the doors of the TARDIS.

"We've gone back in time."

Rory's jaw dropped. "How can you _possibly_ have guessed that?"

Sherlock looked at him like he was a little disappointed. "We are in a meadow of some sort, but if you listen, there's no sounds of traffic. The wildlife is dense here, judging by the number of birds and the faint smell of feces, probably rabbit, more likely deer judging by the grass patterns. So a remote area then. But as the Doctor so obviously wants to impress me, why then would a man with a time machine take me to some patch of wilderness? So back in time then."

The Doctor grinned. "Oh, you're good. I knew you'd be good." He turned to Amy. "Didn't I tell you he'd be good?"

"Dull," Sherlock repeated. The Doctor's face fell.

"Dull," he asked, "We're back in time!"

"Yes," Sherlock said, pulling out his phone, "So all of the discoveries have been made. Why go into the past if you already know what's going to happen."

Offended, the Doctor pulled his sonic out of his pocket and aimed it at Sherlock's phone. Sherlock's rapidly texting thumbs slowed to a stop.

"What have you done," he asked, his voice dangerously low.

The Doctor tossed the sonic upward and caught it out of the air. "Disabled your intergalactic texting plan. We are going to go out there and have adventures and find danger and _quite_ possibly nearly end the world, and you are going to like it."

Sherlock's head snapped up at the sound of Rory's giggling.

"Besides," the Doctor smiled slyly, "haven't you ever wondered what _really _happened at Roanoke?"


	4. Chapter 4

Jumping over rocks and kicking up sand, Sherlock looked over at John, and he didn't like what he saw. And he didn't know why. And that might have been the scariest part.

* * *

_3 Hours Earlier_

* * *

"Aaaaarrrridius," the Doctor drawled, rubbing his hands together. "Brilliant planet, brilliant species, if a bit easily swayed and a little morally objectional. Nothing serious, I'm sure by now it'll be well under control."

"What's the weather like," Amy asked, looking at the sparse desert in the console's monitor.

"It's a _desert_ planet," Sherlock said, looking at her like she'd just said she thought the universe was geocentric.

"Hey," Rory said defensively, "We've been on tundra planets where it got up to 37 degrees in the afternoons."

"Impossible," Sherlock murmured, but he looked interested.

"_Any_way," the Doctor edged in, "Aridius, great planet, let's go."

John was excited beyond words. Going back in time was exhilarating - who would've thought those American settlers had gotten caught in a time-sink on Croatoan Island? - but going to a different planet? That was beyond description.

Which is exactly why the Doctor let John take the first step onto new soil.

Of course, as soon as the sole of his boot made contact, the Doctor was outside bustling about, scanning the air and soil with his screwdriver.

"Looks like about... No, exactly 3,600 years after my first visit. Rude octopi must've completely cleared up by now. C'mon then, on we go, I've got some descendants of old acquaintances to see."

Amy and John took the lead, Rory right up with them, leaving the Doctor and Sherlock to trail behind.

"It's been 53 hours since we entered the TARDIS for the first time," Sherlock remarked.

"Well, here it's been over 1,000 years," the Doctor replied easily.

Sherlock stepped in front of him, bringing the Doctor to a halt. "How long do you plan on keeping us," he asked, his eyes stony. "One more adventure? Two? Or is this the end of the line? How do you expect us to go back after this? I can see it in Amy's eyes, in Rory's; they dread the day you drop them off, get tired of them, send them back to try to piece back together their lives, pretending they'd never met you. So how long, then? How long for me and John? He'll never be the same after this. You know that."

The Doctor looked tired suddenly.

"Sherlock," he started, then tried again. "Now, it's really quite charming the way you think yourself the only person in the universe capable of observing people, but I think you've forgotten just how old I am." He started forward, taking a few steps before Sherlock started following him. "I've been around humans since before you or your great-great-grandparents were born. So trying to sell this 'I'm really just worried about John' card isn't going to work on me. I know how you really feel."

Sherlock stopped abrubtly. The Doctor turned around.

"I'm talking about you wanting to travel with me, of course. What else would I be talking about?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

The Doctor turned around again, and kept walking toward the steadily shrinking forms of Amy, Rory and John in the distance.

"No contract, though," he called without turning his infuriatingly flippy-haired head. "I'm willing to have you on for as long as you'd like. Assuming you don't get too bored first."

Sherlock watched him walk away. He glared at him, but then the Time Lord's words sunk in. His lips curled in a half-smile, and he took a large stride forward, following the Doctor's shadow as it slinked across the desert sand.

* * *

The landscape had changed since the last time he'd seen it, the Doctor mused. The planet was still predominately desert, especially in these more remote areas, but he could see abandoned structures standing out randomly in the sand, the large stones used to build them bleached white from the sun. The last time he'd been here, the Aridians had been driven into hiding after war with the planet's indigenous Mire Beasts had nearly wiped them out. This more scattered collection of shelters seemed like a good sign, but the absence of life was more than a bit disconcerting.

Amy and Sherlock were beginning to tint pink, their fair skin exposed to this unrelenting sun, so the Doctor decided to authorise a brief stop in an abandoned shelter for a quick break from walking and to regain their bearing.

"What's wrong, Doctor," John asked, catching the worried look crossing the Time Lord's face.

"Nothing, Doctor," the Doctor replied cheerily. John grinned back at the nickname - their little in-joke. But when he turned his head, the Doctor cast a nervous glance behind them.

"Finally, shade," Amy grunted, rolling a stone back from the shelter's makeshift doorframe. "Really, Doctor, I don't see why you want to be ginger so bloody bad, it's not a walk in the park-"

Her body flew back from the shelter and crumpled in a heap on the sand.

"Amy!" Rory and John cried, running to her aid. The Doctor whirled around and held out his screwdriver, scanning the area. Damn, he thought, tasting bitter irony. Lifeforms.

Rory and John helped up a stunned but ultimately uninjured Amy as Sherlock and the Doctor circled round the shelter. They positioned themselves around the open door to the shelter and, nodding to one another, peeked in.

Sherlock was stunned to see several creatures clustered inside.

Their skin had gone almost brown, probably an evolutionary method against the sun's harmful rays; their heads were crowned with fins, and sharp teeth glinted from within their mouths.

"Aridians," the Doctor said cheerfully. "Always nice to see an Aridian, even a... bit of a different Aridian..." he trailed off, seeing the murderous looks on the creatures' faces.

"Who are you," one intoned.

"I'm the Doctor," he replied, his smile starting to fall.

The Aridians rose to their full height, the fins on their heads expanding and branching out. Their lips pulled back to reveal rows of teeth. Sherlock stepped back and slowly extended his arm out to protect John, who was standing directly behind him, his eyes wide and his throat dry.

"Doctor," the Aridian hissed, "it is because of you that the Aridian race has been nearly wiped out! If you had never come here, the Daleks would have never followed you, and our fathers' fathers would be alive today!"

One of the Aridians threw his hand out and struck the Doctor square in the chest. The Time Lord's body rag-dolled; he sailed through the air and landed in a heap, rolling backward and clamboring to his feet.

He spun around quickly and issued one word before whipping around and sprinting back toward the TARDIS: "Run!"

Rory seized Amy's hand and tore off after the Doctor. John, still staring at the creatures, was violently yanked as Sherlock slid his hand into John's collar, pulling him into a run alongside himself. John quickly fell into pace with Sherlock, running feeling familiar after their months of fieldwork.

John looked at Sherlock. He had just, with his very own eyes, seen a vicious, deadly alien attack another less vicious but equally deadly alien. Now he was running with his best friend across an alien landscape, running for what was without a doubt his life.

And here was Sherlock Holmes, grinning like a madman.

John started to laugh. Even when he looked back and saw the creatures bounding after them, he still laughed. Sherlock and John caught up with the rest of their group, and John turned his head, still howling at the top of his lungs, and locked teary eyes with the Doctor. And Sherlock saw.

There in John's adrenaline-drunk eyes was something he couldn't explain. Something familiar but complex; it was admiration, respect, loyalty, the kind of loyalty that would make a man take a bullet for another. But it was more than that. It was the look Rory had given Amy as he ran over to her fallen body. It was a look he'd seen John give him, very rarely, though he couldn't explain it at the time.

It was love.

Sherlock's own laughter died in his throat. They reached the TARDIS, the Doctor flinging the doors open. Rory pushed Amy inside, and John stood in the doorway. Sherlock just stood there, his eyes locked onto his, searching. John narrowed his eyes in confusion, and Sherlock looked stricken.

The Doctor, oblivious as always, just shoved Sherlock in, knocking him into John. The Aridians far behind them, the Doctor panted: "Everyone okay?" He reached out to close the door and had barely wrapped his hand around the door handle when they all heard a whizzing. Then the Doctor fell forward, a thin spray of blood floating in the air where his head had been.

The rock was medium-sized, one of the many littering the desert around them. It rolled across the TARDIS floor, leaving a trail of blood and dust behind it. The Doctor crumpled to the floor.

John saw and heard everything in slow motion. Amy shrieking and falling to her knees next to the Doctor, cradling his head in her lap. The blood from his temple staining her pretty yellow skirt. Sherlock, hugging Rory - no, holding him back, pulling him from the open door and slamming it. Rory leaning against it, pounding his fists, screaming rage-filled nonsense words around the tears in his throat. The hum and whoosh of the TARDIS as she began an emergency departure.

Then Amy was shaking him and everything came back in perfect clarity.

"You have to help him!" she cried, bloody hands staining the collar of John's jumper.

John pushed her gently off of him, dropping to his knees next to the Doctor. He took the Time Lord's chin gently in his hand and turned his head to examine the wound. It was a gash to the temple, contusions to the brow bone and jaw. The cut was deep but not long. The blood was pouring swiftly out from the cleaved skin, soaking the Doctor's hair and pooling in his ear. It was too much, too fast.

_Christ_, he remembered. _Two hearts._

Sherlock was by his side immediately, holding out the scarf John had teased him for bringing, once upon a time, and cupping the Time Lord's head in his pale hands. John took the scarf, bunching it up and holding it to the side of the Time Lord's head.

Amy was clinging to Rory as Sherlock and John worked. She let out a sob as she saw the blood soak through the scarf, seeping through John's fingers. She dropped to the ground on all fours.

"You wake up, you hear me?" she screamed at the Doctor's unresponsive face. "Don't you die, God damn you! You can't change! You can't." Her head fell as she wept, the tips of her hair mixing with the Doctor's blood. Rory pulled her to her feet and led her away, out of the console room and down the corridor.

"First aid," John barked, and Sherlock got to his feet immediately. He was back in seconds, brandishing a heavy metal case with WATSON stenciled across it. Call him old-fashioned, or superstitious, but John still used his old Army field case. It never failed him before. He hoped to God it wouldn't fail him now.

Sherlock's heavy breathing in his ears, John cleansed the wound and started to stitch it up. He gave Sherlock orders every now and then. Sherlock followed them without a word, wiping the Doctor's brow, pouring water over the wound, handing him foreceps. Whenever he saw John's hands start to shake, he would say something low and reassuring, you're doing great, John, just fine. If he weren't so preoccupied, John might have thought it shocking. But it stopped his hands shaking and brought him back from Afghanistan and back into the TARDIS.

Fifteen minutes after the initial attack, the Doctor's wound was dressed and his condition stabilised. John checked his pulse again, but realised he had no standard to measure it off of. With a shout, he hurled the foreceps across the room. They bounced off of the console with a metallic clang. He picked up Sherlock's scarf, soggy with blood. He was repulsed for a moment before he realised that his arms were coated in blood up to the elbows. He looked at his fingers, fingernails dark red from trapped blood, and there he was, right back in Afghanistan.

He slumped against the TARDIS doors, the Doctor breathing softly at his feet, and he began to sob. He didn't stop it once it started; he didn't care that Sherlock was standing to the side looking at him. He didn't care when Sherlock sat down next to him. And he didn't care when Sherlock threw his arm around him, letting him sob into his bony shoulder. He just sobbed, confronted by how useless he was in trying to save a man he knew nothing about, and how useless he had been to save the men he had sworn to protect, all those years ago.

* * *

The Doctor's eyes fluttered open. Immediately, he tried to sit up. His head flipped and his stomach turned.

"No you don't," a stern voice came, and he felt himself forced back onto his back. His head connected with something soft, and he looked up into Rory's upside down face.

"Oh, don't get any ideas," Rory said to the Doctor, "It's just my shift."

They were all in the console room, the Doctor laying his head in Rory's lap. Amy and John were leaned against each other, sleeping. Sherlock was sitting with his back against the console, his fingers steepled in thought, his eyes travelling over the Doctor's face and body. The Doctor's head was still a bit hazy, but he knew a deduction face when he saw one.

The Doctor tried to speak, but his throat was dry. He swallowed and managed to get out, "Let me sit up." Rory helped him into a sitting position, leaning his back against the TARDIS doors. Satisfied that the Doctor wasn't going to slump over or start spraying blood out of his his head, Rory sat back down.

"Something to drink," the Doctor rasped, and Rory reached over for a nearby glass.

"Can't I get something else," the Doctor asked.

"Just water for you," Rory said dangerously. "Doctor's orders."

"What if I say tea," the Doctor replied saucily.

"Sorry, mate," Rory said with a wry smile. "John outranks you."

"Rory, _please."_

Rory looked at the Doctor for a moment, then looked at John's sleeping face. Even asleep, he didn't lose that worried look.

"Fine," Rory said, "but if he finds out, you used alien mind control on me." With that, Rory stepped around his sleeping wife and padded down the steps toward one of the kitchens.

As soon as the door closed, the Doctor looked to Sherlock.

"Mass extermination on the planet," Sherlock intoned. "Daleks, apparently. I checked your codex, I hope you don't mind considering the circumstances, but I'm sure you know I really don't care. What I'm more interested in is why you would intentionally return to a planet where you know that the inhabitants betrayed you and sent you and your companions to your deaths."

"Have you told the others," the Doctor said groggily.

"Of course not."

"Thank you."

They were silent for a while, listening to the hum of the TARDIS as she stood by in stasis mode.

"They were peaceful before the Daleks came," the Doctor said. "I always look for the good in people, and in Aridians. I wasn't aware."

"If Amy knew you were walking into danger, she'd kill you herself. And John..." Sherlock swallowed. 'John would also be upset."

"John would be fine, you do it all the time."

"But he doesn't look at me the way he looks at you."

The Doctor looked up at Sherlock, but the detective was looking at John.

"He looked at you today, when we were back on Aridius. He had this look about him, like he would die for you. Like he would do anything for you." He redirected his gaze back on the Doctor, and for once the Time Lord almost felt uncomfortable. "You don't understand how much he needs this," Sherlock continued. "And if you end this for him, I promise that I will make things very unpleasant for you next time you decide to come visiting London in the 21st century."

The Doctor smiled faintly. Oh yes, he'd met Mycroft Holmes. And he knew that both Holmes brothers were men of their word.

Sherlock stood and turned around, striding down the stairs toward the corridor.

"He looks at you like that too, you know," the Doctor called casually, and of course he noticed the falter in Sherlock's last step, the hesitance in his walk toward the door. When the door opened and Rory walked in with a steaming cup of tea, Sherlock grabbed the other man by his elbow, steered him around, and marched him down the hallway. The door closed behind them, and the Doctor pouted.

_Oh come on,_ he thought._ That's just rude._

He let out a long sigh, leaning his aching head against the TARDIS doors.

"Oh, Doyle, my boy," he murmured to himself, "what have you gotten me into?"


	5. Chapter 5

Amelia Pond had been following Sherlock around with a particular glint in her eye. At first, panic gripping his heart, Sherlock thought that the look had been desire. He had come close enough to being throttled by Rory Williams once, and he had no desire to go that way again. And although in his short time with Amy, he'd reluctantly grown to love her, he was terrified at the thought of her trying to court him. Besides, Amy had been looking that way at John, too, and Sherlock doubted that a married woman would be that unscrupulous.

Sherlock modified his hypothesis; Amy must be angry with him. But once again, as she directed the look at John, her nearly inseparable friend, Sherlock scrapped his hypothesis.

It dawned on him eventually that he had seen that look before, on their own Mrs. Hudson. He vaguely remembered her sitting across from John on one of the many days that John had, for some absurd reason, had decided to have her over for tea and a chat.

He had been in the middle of an experiment and was thus inattentive to the inanities of their conversation, but he remembered her mentioning a young man who she suspected was about to propose marriage to her niece. She went on and on about how she was going to nudge him in the right direction the next time she saw him. Her eyes were lit up the same way Amy's were now.

Sherlock reevaluated the facts and came up with a much more thought-provoking and uncomfortable hypothesis. At that moment, he decided to avoid Amy Pond at all costs.

He was doing a good job of it at first, taking the tea John made him and bringing it, alone, to the chemistry lab he so frequently visited. But Amy caught on quickly; on his way there one morning, he noticed her peering into the room, her back turned to him. He slipped silently through a different door and waited her out. That had been too close a call, and Sherlock knew that his favourite room in the TARDIS had been compromised.

So when the Doctor declared that they had to stop off on what he called a "border planet" for an hour or two, and that his companions were welcome to join him - much more of a heavy implication than a genuine question of preference - Sherlock politely declined.

For Sherlock, politely declining meant scoffing and turning his back, climbing the stairs up to the console.

"Wait, where are you going," John asked, following Sherlock quickly. "Sherlock! Different solar system, the year 2517? Planet on the up-and-coming, only recently made habitable? You _can't _tell me you find it boring." John smiled easily, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Sherlock looked over John's shoulder and saw Amy standing by the open TARDIS doors. Her eyes burned with that strange expression as she watched them.

Schooling his features into a carefully blank mask, Sherlock turned back to John. "Oh no, John, please feel free," he said. "When you run into the inevitable and painfully obvious life-threatening situation, I'm sure the Doctor can handle your well-being."

John's smile turned very forced, very fast.

"All right," he said lightly. He turned around, and marched down the stairs and right out of the TARDIS. "Let's go, then," he called behind him. "Sherlock doesn't need to explore a new planet, he's got enough exploring to do with his head up his own arse."

Rory made a very poorly hidden snorting laugh and followed John out.

Puzzled, the Doctor just slapped a Stetson on and grabbed up his old brown coat.

"All right then, your choice Sherlock, don't touch anything." He whirled out the door, only to stick his head back in.

"I know you're going to touch things anyway, so just, no time travel." He disappeared, but his head popped back in once more.

"Just in case, I've disabled the Rassilon Imprimatur, so don't even bother trying."

Sherlock shot him a glare that could melt steel. The Doctor just grinned, waving his screwdriver in a parting gesture, and disappeared for good.

That left Amy and Sherlock. She shook her head. "You _git._"

"What have you planned," Sherlock said lowly.

"I haven't _planned_ anything," she laughed disbelievingly, throwing her hands up. "Why do you always assume people have to have ulterior motives! Maybe I just want to see John happy."

Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, come off it," Amy said, shaking her head with an expression akin to pity. "It's just getting embarrassing."

Sherlock meant to retort, but the Doctor's "come along, Pond" cut him off. And when Amy responded, turning around and closing the doors behind her, Sherlock was left with the bittersweet knowledge that his hypothesis had been correct.

* * *

It'd been nearly a week, but John still couldn't believe it. Last week, his life hadn't necessarily been normal, living with a consulting detective and all, so he should be used to imminent death, long nights, and strange people. But when those strange people were of a different _species,_ that changed everything.

So here he was, sitting in a pub on a planet hundreds of thousands of miles away from Earth - which, it just so happened, _didn't exist any more _- drinking possibly the best whisky he'd ever had in his life, with an alien, a nurse, and a Scot. _Two doctors, a nurse, and a Scot walk into a bar..._ He wasn't sure if it was just the whisky, but he found it so hilarious that he couldn't help but let a few giggles out.

Amy smiled brightly at him. "John Watson, you big lightweight! And you call yourself a soldier."

"Hey," John said, fake-offended, "Bit of slack, please, this is whisky from a different planet. And I'm doing a bit better than _him._" He gestured to Rory, who was halfway through a bottle of imported wine from someplace called Persephone, and he was all but laid out on the counter.

The Doctor returned from speaking to a very intimidating man in a quite fashionable jumper. His face got sour as he saw the state John and Rory were in.

"I leave you for five minutes and you get yourselves drunk on cheap Rim wine. Shameful, Ponds!"

"It's been two hours!" Amy cried. "And that wine is _not _cheap, I'll have you know. And I haven't even had any." She stopped for a beat. "And what about John, why isn't he in trouble?"

"He's my favourite," the Doctor grinned.

John and Rory broke out into peals of laughter, the barkeep giving them a very familiar look that said _honestly, John, you're making a fool of yourself _in a very low, very posh voice. With a sigh, John hauled himself to his feet, grabbing Rory by the arm and pulling him off his barstool. Rory was surprisingly less wobbly than he expected him to be after half a bottle of wine.

"Quickly, quickly," the Doctor said, scanning the air with his sonic. "We've got to get out of here before something happens."

"Before what happens?" The words were barely out of John's mouth before the pub exploded into cacophony. Tables flipped, glasses shattered, and men began to brawl. Amy grabbed Rory and ran for the door, the Doctor's shouts ringing in their ears. But of course, the Doctor got grabbed up by the collar of his long brown coat.

The man was huge, with a stripe of hair going down the centre of his head, tied into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He had the Doctor pulled close enough to kiss. Immediately John began to locate vital areas. He doubted the Doctor could throw a punch as well as he could throw words around.

"That's a nice coat you've got there," the outlaw growled. "Don't see too many folk in brown coats this side of the 'Verse."

The Doctor looked confused. "Brown... coat?" He let his head fall back with a groan. "Of _course_, Unification Day. Brown coat, border planet, oh Doctor, well done, you." With that, the Doctor kicked the man squarely in the trousers. The man dropped him and fell to his knees, gasping. John rushed over to the Doctor and grabbed him up, running for the door. They made it out, but not before John was elbowed in the nose by a man three times his size.

They ran to the TARDIS, John weaving a bit as the whisky hit him more fully. Dots surfaced and split into stars before his eyes as he gasped for breath. They finally reached the TARDIS, spilling through its doors and onto the floor, the doors slamming behind them. The Doctor took the stairs three at a time, and hammered buttons and threw levers until they were violently twisting through the Time Vortex again.

The TARDIS stabilised. It was quiet, save for the three companions' heavy breathing. Then Rory let out a strangled chuckle, and all three of them began to tear into laughter. Amy fell limply against John, and John slapped Rory's back. The Doctor just stood at the console, hanging onto the side as he whooped.

"Happy Unification Day, everyone!"

They were laughing so hard that they didn't hear Sherlock walk up onto the console. In a matter of seconds, he had crossed the console and was kneeling between Amy and Rory at John's feet.

John's laughter choked in his throat as Sherlock took his face gently into his hand, his eyes searching his face for contusions. He could feel the coolness of Sherlock's palm against his sweaty cheek as he probed for broken bones. The pad of Sherlock's thumb traced over John's eyebrow and down the bridge of his nose. His strangely painful nose.

Oh.

"Shit, Sherlock, you're getting blood on you." John grabbed Sherlock's hand in his own and pulled it away from his face. Blood stained the cuff of Sherlock's shirt.

"Shut up, John, you act as if I haven't had your blood on me before." He placed two index fingers on either side of John's nose and applied pressure. "Does this hurt?"

John slapped his hand away irritably. "I think you're forgetting who's the doctor here."

"And under normal circumstances you would be an excellent doctor, but currently you smell like an alcoholic and you have the coordination of a two-year-old, sit _still_, John."

John got to his feet wobbily, but stood his ground. "Sod off, Sherlock," he spat. "I'm tired of you treating me like this, all the bloody time. I'm older than you, you know, and you may be a genius but that doesn't make me an idiot."

He stormed off, leaving Amy, Rory and the Doctor to stare awkwardly at the consulting detective as he stood with bloody clenched fists at his sides. He stood still for a few moments, then took off in John's direction.

Rory nodded slowly, his eyes glazed with wine. "Sherlock can be a right bastard sometimes."

Amy turned and looked at him, her eyebrows arched in surprise. Then she leaned over and kissed him straight on the mouth.

The Doctor pulled a face, looking away quickly. He decided he'd try to find Sherlock and John, against his better judgment. He'd rather listen to a row than watch half of the Ponds drunkenly try to coordinate lips and arms, and the other half pretend to enjoy it.

* * *

John knew Sherlock would find him eventually, but he thought he'd make himself hard to find, just out of spite. So he went to the one place that seemed to be the most out of the way - the pool.

Sherlock found him in ten minutes.

He closed the door behind himself slowly and walked up next to John, standing close enough for conversation, but far enough that if John had any residual rage and decided to throw him in the pool, he would have ample time for a counter-attack.

John noticed the distance and chuckled softly. "Don't worry, I'm not going to get you," he said.

Sherlock looked at him skeptically, but edged closer nonetheless. "You're not angry any more?"

"Sherlock, I'm always angry at you for some reason or another." He paused. "Well, I'm not, but I should be. There's always something."

Sherlock nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He thought of how John's face had been just a week earlier, after noticing the coagulating goat's blood in the back of the pantry. Had it really been a week? It felt like a lifetime.

_Time flies when it's not confined to linear constraints, _he heard the Doctor say in his head. His eyebrow twitched. The Doctor entering into his head uninvited must be a very, very unfortunate side-effect of prolonged exposure.

John sighed heavily. "I can see why they all leave, eventually," he said, locking his fingers together and setting his hands on the back of his head.

"Who," Sherlock asked conversationally. Of course, he knew what John would say.

"His other companions."

Sherlock nodded. So John felt it, too. He cleared his throat.

"John, I've come to apologise."

"Have you really?" John sounded pleased, if a little disbelieving.

"I'd like to wait until you've sobered up."

"You're afraid I'll forget?"

"I would... prefer not to have to repeat myself, yes."

John leaned his head back against his hands and laughed. "You're supposed to be a genius, but you really have no filter, have you?" When Sherlock only looked at him blankly, John just shook his head. "You can apologise now. I'm all sobered up. Mostly." He smiled weakly in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock nodded, locking his hands behind his back and beginning to pace. "I assume that you're upset with me not because I made you feel intellectually inferior, as I do that all the time. I haven't done anything else to personally offend you, in terms of avoidance, irritation; on the contrary, I've been quite at ease due to all of the distractions time travel provides me. You obviously understand that I value and appreciate our partnership, that clearly can't-"

"Ah, wait, hang on Sherlock," John interjected. Sherlock looked up, mid-pace, slightly annoyed that John had thrown him off his deduction. "That last one, that's it."

Sherlock looked at him blankly for a moment, then looked visibly confused. "You feel that I don't appreciate you professionally? John, don't be an idiot."

Sherlock internally kicked himself as John's raised eyebrow tipped him off to what he'd said.

"I mean to say," Sherlock started slowly, and John realised that he could practically see the gears turning in the neglected social area of Sherlock's brain, "that you should understand that I do value our working relationship, as well as our... friendship."

"It's a bit hard to tell sometimes," John quipped good-naturedly.

"If I was unclear, I apologise," Sherlock said solemnly. John just laughed.

"Sherlock, it's fine."

"No, John."

John looked up and nearly shrunk back. Sherlock was staring at him intensely, like he was a puzzle he had to figure out. But even more frightening to John was that Sherlock looked uncomfortable himself.

"I was unclear, and I'd like to make myself clear."

Sherlock steepled his fingers and placed the tips of his forefingers to his lips. John just stood at the edge of the pool, the lapping water sending waves of light off of the walls.

"I've noticed that without your presence, there is a noticeable decrease in my productivity," Sherlock said suddenly. "You're reliable in the field, as well as at home. For some reason, you are better equipped to deal with the more disagreeable aspects of my personality as well as my personal life, which is something no one else has been able to do. You continuously and without recompense ensure that I'm taken care of, in terms of health and my work, and you provide an intellectual outlet offering conversation both intellectual when I like it and inane when I need it. I also find that you are agreeable and tolerable to live around. Pleasant."

He paused for a moment as if verifying facts before removing his hands from his face and letting them fall to his sides. His body seemed much more relaxed.

"I'm more than comfortable with our current arrangement, and I'd like to continue it for as long as you're willing."

John stood at the edge of the pool, wondering if it was the alcohol or just Sherlock that had him so damn confused.

"Uh, thank you, Sherlock," he said dumbly. "What is it exactly you mean by 'our current arrangement'?"

"Ugh, I hate labels, John," Sherlock said dryly, "they make things so dull and trite. Must we categorise this?"

"I... no, I suppose not," John said, still staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at him as if he were a dangerous trap.

"John, would you like me to kiss you?"

"Oh, God no." The words were out before John could even censor them.

"Excellent. I'll have tea on, you're welcome to join me."

And with that, Sherlock turned round, his coat fanning out behind him, and walked out of the room and down the hallway. John could still hear his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

He stood there a few more moments, trying to make his brain work through the fog of information Sherlock had just offered him. He knelt down at the pool's edge and grabbed a handful of water, splashing it on his face. He coughed, spitting the water out and using his sleeves to wipe his eyes.

Salt water. Of course.

John fell back on his bum and ran his fingers through his hair. Last week he'd been halfway through Othello, sitting in his armchair, and now he was in a time machine, having just been asked out by Sherlock Holmes.

John laughed. He stood up, cracked his back, and headed toward the door, still chuckling. _If that's how Sherlock Holmes handles romance,_ John thought, _God only knows how he makes tea._


	6. Chapter 6

Shut up. I know it's late. I've been building a website and taking midterms. MIDTERMS! Leave me to die. -SDez

* * *

The Doctor had absolutely no idea why Sherlock and John seemed so much more at ease recently, but he wasn't going to mess with a good thing. No rows, relatively no tension, and a cooperative Sherlock, that wasn't something he wanted to jinx. Or know about.

At least, that's what his story would be. He watched John and Sherlock banter as normal, but when he saw the look in their eyes, that challenging, excited gleam, he kept his smiles to himself.

Amy, however, was all too interested in what changed Sherlock's and John's dynamic. But Sherlock, being experienced in the art of deduction, and knowing what to look for, blocked her every attempt to use his body language, vocal inflection, or even subtext to find out what had transpired between him and John. It wasn't that he wanted Amy to fail, or even that it was a matter of privacy; he adored the girl, as loathe as he was to admit it, he just loved seeing her get all riled up.

He also had to get Rory back for laughing at John's childish comment, and doesn't hell have no wrath like a woman scorned?

John, on the other hand, was completely unaware of Amy's interest in their personal situation. As close as he and Amy had gotten, one thing he'd never really brought up in their numerous conversations was his relationship with Sherlock - mostly because he was unaware he _had_ one until Sherlock had sprung it on him.

So John went about his normal business, which that day happened to be organising the entire TARDIS, room by room.

He had originally mentioned the idea to Sherlock in passing after the Doctor's accident on Aridius, but his interest was renewed after he and Sherlock had... whatever had happened.

"If I hadn't brought my first aid kit, we might not have been able to find one," John said. "He could have died." Sherlock noticed a wrinkle between John's eyebrows that formed when he worried. It was strange how he noticed that now, when virtually nothing had changed.

"Regenerated, actually," Sherlock replied easily.

"What?"

"He wouldn't have died, he'd have regenerated. It's part of Time Lord biology that when their lives are threatened by damage to their physical form, they 'regenerate', or change forms."

"Sherlock, how can you possibly know that."

"I got into his cortex and read some of the files."

"It's password-protected!"

"That's a trick. It's actually unlocked by fingerprint, sensors on the keyboard. I found a finger lying around, guessed it'd be his. He's really quite sentimental."

John shook his head, grinning. "You're unbelievable."

Sherlock counted six different ambiguities within that sentence. Six levels of subtext. He wasn't sure if it made him happy or uncomfortable. It was a new feeling. He kept his mouth shut.

"Well, either way," John continued, "This place is in dire need of a clean-up. This morning I went into the cupboard for cream and got my hand pinched by a _live crab._"

"Crab? John, that'd be perfect for-"

"No, Sherlock."

"John, will you at least listen to my proposal?"

"No, Sherlock, I won''re not killing the crab, the Doctor's quite fond of it."

"I don't plan to _kill_ it, John, don't be barbaric. The experiment tests how different types of dyes affect the cell walls of certain fungi. The chitin in the crab's exoskeleton-"

"Sherlock, the crab is the Doctor's skull."

The illogic of the sentence momentarily muted Sherlock, before he realised that what John had said was actually a very crudely worded analogy.

"He talks to a crab?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Don't make that face, you talk to a skull."

Sherlock made that face anyway, but sulked off nonetheless. John smiled to himself. He still wasn't entirely sure what their "current arrangement" was, but he really quite enjoyed it.

* * *

The Doctor rooted through a chest, scrabbling around and tossing brightly coloured boas and obnoxious feather hats all across the room. John walked up to him, sipping a cup of Earl Grey and watching him.

"Why are you in the disguise chest," John asked casually.

"It's not a disguise chest," the Doctor snapped irritably, "It's my 'C' chest. It's alphabetised by 'C'."

"Oh," John said quietly.

"'Oh?'" the Doctor asked, turning his head slowly. "'Oh?' 'Oh' is never good, in fact 'oh' is very _very_ not good, 'oh' is... What did you do?"

"I thought it wasn't organised," John said, "so I reorganised it by usage."

The Doctor looked at him. "Oh, brilliant," he said, standing. "Don't know why I didn't think of that - all right, where are my Carrionites, then?"

"Carrionites?"

"Angry yelling women trapped in a glass ball? Quite rude?"

"Oh, yeah. I put all the... trapped... aliens together, they're in the-"

"You put them _together_?"

An explosion rocked the TARDIS. Amy shrieked somewhere, and then all went silent.

A tense five seconds passed. John held his breath. Then Sherlock's head popped otu of a door, hair mussed, smoke clinging to the curls.

"Sorry," he called, although obviously not sorry at all.

"What did you do," Rory asked, clamoring into the room.

"I was in the chemistry lab," Sherlock replied cooly. "I found a combination of chemicals that results in - "

"Wait, you found the chemistry lab?" the Doctor cried. "Show me!"

Sherlock held the door open for the Time Lord and they half-jogged down the hall.

"Is that sulphur I smell," the Doctor asked, a dangerous sort of glee crossing his face.

"Decaborane," Sherlock replied smugly.

"Ooh!"

The door closed behind the two. Without a word, Rory and John left the room; Rory to find Amy, their only line of defence, and John to go to the "Doctor and Sherlock are together" cabinet to grab a fire extinguisher, a fire blanket, and a pair of handcuffs, just in case.

* * *

"John!"

John looked up from the where he was kneeling, the cupboard under the sink opened before him. Amy felt fondness well up inside her, a pleasant sort of feeling she got every time she saw John doing something mundane that made him so happy. She really loved the man.

Which is why she was going to trick him into having tea, then grill him until he told her exactly what had happened between him and Sherlock to make the detective look at her like the cat that'd had the canary.

Amy smiled down at him, chemical bottles all around him, sorted into two piles. "What're you doing?"

John sighed and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Organising. I came under here for some cleaning products and found nitric acid, a half-used bottle of hydrochloric acid, and saline. And some thumbs. Sherlock's going to answer for that one," he said lowly, and Amy tossed her head back and laughed.

John grinned. He loved Amy like a sister, but, as any brother would, he knew exactly why she was here.

"So," she said, edging closer and sitting against the cupboard next to him, "Care for some tea?"

"I'm a bit busy at the moment," he said kindly, "But thanks."

Amy nodded, her eyes roaming around the small kitchen. "Care for a chat anyway?"

John smiled. "What is it, Amy," he asked, a teasing tone in his voice he'd never gotten to use with his real sister.

"Well, you know, I've just noticed that Sherlock's been acting strange," she said, picking up a bottle from the "Dangerous Chemicals" pile and reading the label. "Any idea what happened? Is he all right?"

"More than all right, I'd hope," John said casually, sorting all the dirtied rags from the clean ones. He looked up at her, his smile carefully concealed.

"No," she breathed. John just grinned.

"No!" she cried, her face splitting into a beaming smile. "John Watson, you will be the _envy _of London!"

John fell back onto his bum and laughed. Amy just stared at him, smiling. All of the creases that the war had carved into his face melted away as he laughed. The only indicator to his age was the fine laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. And she didn't have to be a consulting detective to know who'd put them there.

* * *

Rory was in his and Amy's old bedroom, laying on the top bunk of the ridiculous bunk-beds he was too embarrassed to tell Amy he loved. He liked to come back to the bedroom on days like these, when they were between planets and he needed time to think.

His eyes fell closed and he mentally replayed everything that had happened on the border planet. The man with the knife that Amy had been completely unaware of, swinging the blade back only a foot from her. Running from the pub, the TARDIS within sight, alcohol making his head swimmy. How if Amy got hurt, he just might have been too drunk to help her.

The door opened softly. He heard the whisper of a coat rubbing against the doorframe, and the soft click of the door being closed.

"Rory," Sherlock's low voice came, "Am I interrupting?"

"Yeah," Rory said back. His lips twitched as he fought a smile.

"How inconvenient," Sherlock said, and Rory's smile won. He sat up and looked over at Sherlock. He was leaning up against the door of the little bedroom, looking smugly at Rory.

"Did you do it then," Rory asked, stretching and swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed.

"You were right," Sherlock said as Rory dropped to the floor. "The arrangement was already there, it just needed to be recognised."

"So he took to it all right?"

"He was very confused."

"Oh god," Rory groaned, "you didn't try to romance him, did you? Sherlock, please say no."

"No," Sherlock said, but he looked offended, which didn't affect Rory at all. "I presented the facts in a rational order and then made a conclusion."

"You wrote him an essay," Rory said, deadpan. He shook his head. "Did you... I mean, did he... You know."

"I asked him if he wanted to kiss me, but he declined."

"Does that bother you?"

Sherlock paused and looked away in thought.

"Yes."

Rory put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and squeezed. "Good."

Sherlock looked up sharply.

"You're already ahead of schedule. Give it a few years and you'll be married, possibly have a time-travelling assassin daughter, it'll be great."

The grinned like schoolboys.

The door opened and the Doctor's head popped in.

"Sherlock, can I have a minute?"

* * *

Sherlock stood at the open doors of the TARDIS and looked out into the vastness of space. It really was beautiful, he'd give John that. Even though it was a collection of swirling gases, a completely natural phenomenon. It was beautiful.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said. Sherlock didn't need to see his face, measure his pupils, or watch the way his body leaned to know that he was being sincere. The Doctor was one of those people who, refreshingly enough, meant what he said. Really _meant _what he said.

"How long," Sherlock asked, his voice strained and raw.

"Three years," the Doctor said. "It has to be three."

"And John can't know?"

"No," the Doctor said, looking down at his hands. "For his own safety." He looked up at Sherlock's thin back, the silhouette sharp against the bright backdrop of space. "You can come back. Just three years, Sherlock. It's -"

"A fixed point in time," Sherlock cut him off. He nodded, turned around to face the Doctor. He took a deep breath. "Tell me your plan."

* * *

John was the one who ultimately made the decision, a week later. Amy and Rory had been in denial, initially, but eventually the Doctor had gotten them to warm to it.

They stood at the doors of the TARDIS, in an alley just a few blocks from 221B Baker Street, suitcases piled round them. Amy had stopped crying, but her lip trembled anyway. Rory stood sheepishly at her side.

"We'll be back before you know it," John said, pulling Amy into a tight hug.

"No, _we'll _be back before _you_ know it," Amy said, her voice watery in John's ear. "We'll have to wait."

"Oh, Amy, you'll have more fun than I will with Spock over there," John gestured to Sherlock, holding Amy at arm's length. She punched him in the arm, but let herself smile.

"You know we have to go back," John said. "I hate it, but we have another life that we can't run away from."

"I know," Amy said. A tear rolled down her cheek despite herself.

Sherlock faced Rory and was surprised to be at a loss for words.

"Thank you," he said eventually. Rory pulled that easy half-smile and Sherlock realised why Amy had picked him. He was her anchor.

Rory held out his hand. Sherlock grabbed it and shook it firmly. They both smiled, but pretended to try really hard not to, just for appearances.

Then they switched. Rory held his hand out to John, but he just pushed it away and pulled Rory into a hug.

Sherlock stepped up to Amy and held his hand out for her to shake. Amy's face crumpled and she pulled him roughly by his collar and planted a kiss on his cheek. He wrapped his arms around her, letting her head fall onto his chest. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head gently. Rory and John stood side-by-side and watched them, identical lumps forming in their throats.

Amy stepped back eventually, her eyes puffy and red.

"Sherlock Holmes, you stay out of trouble," her voice cracked.

"Amelia Pond," he said, taking her hand and looking her dead in the eyes, "I promise you that I won't."

Sherlock and John picked up their suitcases and walked away. And then they were on their respective sides, Amy and Rory standing with their backs against the TARDIS and Sherlock and John standing at the mouth of the alley, a space that felt too vast between them.

The Doctor stepped out between the Ponds and closed the distance. John stepped forward and hugged the Doctor forcefully. The Doctor hugged back and graciously ignored the wet spot he felt forming on the shoulder of his coat.

"John Watson," he said gently into John's ear. "Brilliant, strong John Watson." John's shoulders shook. "No matter what happens, you remember that you have a job to do here. One day, we will come back for you."

John released the Doctor and wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Yeah," he whispered.

The Doctor smiled and patted John on the arm. Sherlock came up behind John and put a hand on his shoulder. John's hand rested on Sherlock's. Sherlock handed him a wad of notes.

"Can you get us a taxi," he asked gently.

"Yeah," John said, taking the money. He looked at the Doctor once more, then looked over his shoulder at Amy and Rory. He raised his hand and waved. Amy and Rory waved back. With a shuddering sigh, he picked up his suitcases and walked to the main street to hail a cab.

Sherlock and the Doctor let the silence settle between them for a while.

"Three years," Sherlock said. "No more."

"No more," the Doctor repeated.

"And you give me your word you will take care of him?"

"I give you my word."

Sherlock looked into the Doctor's too-old eyes for a moment. Then, without a word, he picked up his suitcases, gave a parting wave to Amy and Rory, and walked to the main road to meet John.

The Doctor watched them disappear into the open door of the taxi, then turned round on his heel and marched back to the TARDIS. Amy was crying again, one of Rory's arms slung round her shoulder. The Doctor traced his thumb up the side of her cheek and let his hand fall to his side.

He felt Amy's pain, Rory's pain, the TARDIS' pain at their absence. And he felt his own pain, knowing exactly what would happen to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson over the span of the next few months. Sherlock's fall, John's grief, and the inevitable resentment and hatred he would feel for the Doctor who just didn't come in time.

So the Doctor looked at his two companions, Amy, so strong, and good old reliable Roman Rory, and he pushed away all of the grief and guilt he felt for events far, far beyond his control.

The Doctor turned to his companions, and because he knew that it was what they wanted, what they needed from him, he slid on his carefully maintained mask, the tactic he'd been relying on for the past 900 years.

He smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

John's eyes opened, looking lazily around the room. They blurred and focused, blurred and focused. Newspapers taking form, plastered over the walls. UFO sightings and strange disappearances. A map of London, another of Cardiff, pushpins littering them both, coloured yarn linking them. He closed his eyes and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

With a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the blanket slipping off of his thin shoulders and exposing him to the winter chill. He gently tucked the blankets back into the sides of the bed, aligning the pillows just so. He grabbed the familiar bathrobe off of the chair and wrapped it around himself, the sleeves too long. He smiled and closed Sherlock's bedroom door behind him.

The silence of the flat hit him just as harshly as it had the first day. He swallowed the daily lump in his throat and made it to the kitchen. Just like every day, a danish and a cup of Earl Grey sat in a plate on the table. Today, the tea was steaming. John snorted. This time, he had gotten the timeline straight. There was a chocolate sitting by the plate with red lipstick staining the wrapper. John's eyes got misty, and he wiped the tears away with a chuckle.

This had been his life, every day the same. He had wept like a child when Mycroft came round to tell him Sherlock had left John his entire estate, but days like these, when the snow fell in a powdery flurry and he had a hot cup of tea, John was happy he didn't have to work. Most days he missed the bustle of the clinic, and his heart still twinged remembering the running and the danger of the cases, the planets - but today, he was content to sit on the couch with his tea, cuddled up in the too-large robe, and watch the snow fall.

After... John shook his head and looked up at the skull on the mantle. He still couldn't bring himself to say it, after three long years. After... Sherlock... John was desperate to find the Doctor. He scoured dirty London backstreets looking for excess time radiation. He ran in circles intercepting top-secret UNIT communications. He followed anonymous clues online, leading him all over the Welsh countryside. He even chatted with a _very_ handsy man in a bar for hours, though he couldn't remember any of it.

He'd come up dry every time. In three years, nothing.

And then the tea started showing up, a simple cup at first, every day on the kitchen table. Sometimes it was piping hot, just from the kettle, and sometimes it was ice cold with a film over the top. Sometimes there was a plate of biscuits accompanying it. John had laughed until he cried when a platter was left out with one Jammy Dodger in a sea of crumbs.

He hadn't forgotten about John. All that Universe out there and he hadn't forgotten John Watson.

He redoubled his efforts.

He wasn't even sure why he wanted to see the Doctor. John knew that he knew what would happen to Sherlock. He knew he did nothing to stop it. But he wasn't angry. He knew what the Doctor was feeling. He could almost feel him sometimes, as if a tenuous string connected them throughout the cosmos, binding them together. John wanted to forgive him. He wanted to wake up one day and find the TARDIS standing in Sherlock's bedroom, waking him up with that wonderful grinding noise. He wanted to see Amy and Rory again, trade stories and wisecracks with the Doctor, see the beauty of the Universe again.

He wanted so, so terribly to come home.

There was a knock on the door, solid and sturdy, and John snapped out of his reverie. Lestrade, then. He still bothered John with cases, still smoked when he thought no-one was looking, still berated and cursed Sherlock under his breath, as if he was standing right behind them, deducing and smiling smugly. And God, John loved him for that.

He knocked again, and John stood, fastening the bathrobe around his waist. "Hang on," he called, but the knocking came again.

KNOCK KNOCK-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK... KNOCK-KNOCK.

John's head swam for a moment. He gripped the armrest of the couch and sturdied himself, eyebrows knitted and throat dry. The last time he'd heard that knock, he'd thrown open the door, his heart about to explode, and found himself face to face with Harry. She had no idea how to react when he burst into tears. He told her to never knock like that again.

He could slap her for doing this again. _I just might_, he thought, pounding his way across the room. Footfalls echoing loudly in the too-empty space, he swung the door open.

Red. Dimples. Grinning. Joy. Love.

"Amy," he choked. "Good god, come here."

Amy laughed and cried, allowing herself to be wrapped up in a tight hug. She squeezed back, warm tears pooling in the dip between John's neck and shoulder. John laughed loudly, emotions mixing and pouring out.

"Three years," he said, feeling almost surreal. "Three years and not even a glimpse." He held her at arms' length. "You've cut your hair!"

Amy was still crying. Grinning, but crying, tears blurring her mascara and wracking her body.

"What's wrong," he asked, his voice small.

She shook her head and took his hand, pulling him gently into the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, the TARDIS stood, its doors open.

John's heartbeat sped up as he looked down the stairs, each step illuminated by that familiar orange glow. He took them two at a time, Amy watching him with watery eyes from the top, hand pressed against her mouth.

He reached the TARDIS and stepped inside, looking around wildly.

"Doctor," he called. It died in his throat. His smile slipped into a grimace.

Because there, standing at the console, thin and dark in baggy, torn clothes, was Sherlock Holmes.

John's knees buckled and he hit the ground hard on his knees. Sherlock rushed over and wrapped his arms around John, dragging him back up to his feet.

John Watson reared back and cold-cocked him.

Amy shrieked from the doors of the TARDIS as Sherlock crumpled in a heap on the floor.

Suddenly John's whole world went brown and tweed and bright green and _buzzing_, and there was the Doctor.

"Really, John, that's how you greet an old friend after three years?" He bent down and picked Sherlock up, dragging him bodily toward a chair by the console. "Not very romantic," he said, voice strained with Sherlock's weight. "Not that I'd know much about romance. Well, there are a few times I can remember off the top of my head, but you don't ever tarnish a lady's honour by talking about _those_ kinds of things around the lady's mother." He gestured at Amy, who was still staring open-mouthed at the scene at large.

"Either way, shame on you John Watson, I've been here going on 45 seconds now and you've not said a word." He slumped Sherlock into the chair and turned around, grinning with arms spread wide. "Come on. Where's my hug?"

And bless his heart, John cold-cocked _him_, too.

* * *

Aww, y'all thought I'd forgotten about you, didn't you. I would _never_.

Next chapter'll be longer. -hy


End file.
